


steal the lightning

by stilesinwonderland (itsabravenewworld)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Thunderstorms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-21
Updated: 2015-05-21
Packaged: 2018-03-31 12:49:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3978667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itsabravenewworld/pseuds/stilesinwonderland
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Derek is soaking wet."<br/>Stiles and Derek both dealing with a thunderstorm and the everyday threats on their lives.</p>
            </blockquote>





	steal the lightning

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys!! So I'll be posting a bunch of my fics from over on tumblr because I have a prompt event going on. so if you'd like, keep following my collection and you'll see new updates. However, if you have a tumblr, please go and reblog because that is the best. I can be found at obriensnipples, and I have a tag to my fics on there. Thanks guys, stay cool!

Derek is soaking wet.

 

It’s hard to focus on much else, as Stiles yells at him to get inside. He shakes the rainwater out of his hair, like a twitch and wipes the water off his face with his palm. Because he’s soaking wet. And does not look so pleased about this situation. The truth is, Derek isn’t here to see him. He _is_ here _for_ him, but the reasoning why is less complimentary in his favor.

 

So; Stiles is still a virgin. Stiles doesn’t expect that status to change any time soon, but he also doesn’t think it’s too much to ask that he _doesn’t_ always come under threat of his life because of it. Because now there’s a witch, or a fairy, or _something_ supernatural (that they can’t even really pinpoint which is scary on its own) _,_ something that’s fast and _terrifying_ in Beacon Hills, and now it’s after him.

 

Derek is here to keep watch, has been for over three nights as he slept, and followed him to school so he doesn’t have to worry about being attacked in gym class or something. At first it was cool; Derek kept to himself like usual and sometimes Stiles would watch him out the window as he sat and stared gloomily at the forest. The storm had started the night before though, and has barreled on, bringing about ungodly amounts of rain (but just rain and no thunder), so now the entertainment value of the whole thing has reduced a bit. In fact, he’s started to feel pretty bad about it.

 

Stiles offers a towel with a raise of an eyebrow (along with a sweep-down of his form-fitting shirt), and Derek takes it. He begins rubbing at his hair, soaking up the drops of water from the tips of his jet-black hair. “Looks like a monsoon out there,” Stiles comments conversationally, like this happens all the time. It really doesn’t, Stiles is disappointed to think.

 

“It is, almost.” Derek doesn’t look amused when Stiles smirks, his shoes squishing; he makes a disgusted face and toes them off, then his socks too, until he’s standing barefoot in Stiles’s living room. And he’s doing that gentle-look that makes Stiles want to ask him about his day and dumb things. But his traitorous mind debates whether it would be worth it to ask Derek to take one for the team and have sex with Stiles just so he doesn’t have to keep watch forever.

 

Derek turns to glare out the window. “Seriously though, dude, you can sit inside with me and keep watch for the spooky thing,” is the closest he gets to that thought at all.

 

“That’s why I came in,” Derek says, with attitude. Stiles hops on his toes, averting his eyes. “The storm hasn’t let up and I can’t track the scent anyways with the rain.” He looks back out the still-open door and then closes it, locks it tight.

 

Stiles nods. “Yeah, I feel bad with you out there, even if you can’t get sick. Your clothes are soaked.”

 

Derek, reacting to what Stiles has said, shakes his arms and his jacket makes a sopping sound in his armpits. He slips the jacket off of his shoulders and looks around like he’s scared to set it down, because it will get everything wet. Stiles takes it from him with a good-humored sigh and tosses it into his laundry room. Derek follows the movement and looks kind of pissed that Stiles just threw it like that and didn’t hang it nicely or something.

 

“I doubt it will attack tonight, with the weather like it is. It will probably travel to where it isn’t storming to hunt. The senses aren’t good in a storm.” Derek explains.

 

It also explains the sudden spree of virgin-murders that occurred before the storm had hit, Stiles thinks. “That sounds frightening, and uh. You’re dripping water onto my floor.” He points to the puddle developing on his wooden floors, and Derek follows it with his eyes.

 

“I’m sorry,” Derek says, and he actually _sounds_ sorry.

 

“Do you want a pair of clothes? My jeans might be too tight but it’s better than that, I’m sure.” Derek nods, more like a shrug. “I’ll be back,” Stiles runs up the stairs and grabs him his biggest pair of jeans that he has and a t-shirt. Derek goes into the bathroom to change, and when he emerges, he looks ridiculous, but at least the pants fit perfectly. The jeans fit him like sin fits around a demon; Stiles’s shirt is too small but it covers his abdomen snugly and hitches just above his waistline when he scratches at his arm.

 

“So…” Stiles can’t really look at him because in all of his ridiculousness, Stiles still thinks he’s the most attractive person he’s seen in-- ever. In the background, the rain begins to pound harder against Stiles’s roof. “I can toss your clothes in the dryer if you want--”  There’s a flicker of lightning, then a boom of thunder in quick succession that halt his words.

 

Derek kind of flinches (the thunder must be torture for his super-hearing after all) and then suddenly there’s a cracking noise from outside, and the ground trembles under their feet.

 

The loud crashing makes him run straight to his living room window, push aside the curtain. His tree (the one that’s been there since he was little) is nearly split in _two,_ the heavy side hanging down and Stiles can tell it nearly crashed into the house when it was struck. Little billows of smoke are drifting through the air, and Stiles barely has any time to quip about it as his stupid self tries to open the window to take a closer look, because then his window flies open, _whacks_ him straight in the face from the forceful gust of wind. He grasps in a wild manner at his wounded nose and collapses back into the couch as Derek slams the window closed again and then locks it.

 

“Oh my god, I’m wounded!” Stiles yells and refuses to take his hands off of his face when Derek’s fingers prod and tug at his own.

 

“Stiles!” He sounds pissed off, or even stressed.

 

Stiles, moaning in pain, curls in on himself in mortification. “Leave me here to die-- my tree is _broken_! It was struck by lightning! How am I going to tell my dad? Is my face broken too?” Derek’s fingers are warm and are attracting some of his attention away from his panic, but not by much, because it only attracts Stiles’s panic to Derek instead.

 

“I would tell you if you would let me _see,”_ Derek bites out, and Stiles finally lets his hands drop from his throbbing face, but he turns away so Derek can’t see his stupidly flushed cheeks. He thinks he feels blood running down past his lip and Derek keeps trying to look at it, which is making him all the more flustered.

 

“Nope. I’m just going to--” Stiles looks around drastically, out the open window into the rain. He runs to the front hallway and picks up his shoes and jacket, hopping to slip the shoes on.  “Actually, now that you mention it, we _should_ be keeping watch. I’ll take the next turn and stand in the rain,” Stiles is already slipping his jacket on over his shoulders as Derek hovers behind him, “...and probably drown myself.”

 

“Stiles--”

 

Stiles closes the door behind himself and hunches his shoulders to run into the rain. Derek doesn’t follow him, and he feels an odd combination of relief and disappointment the further he trudges across his backyard. The cold feels agonizing against his neck and face as it soaks into his clothes, but he stares resolutely at the trees and prods at his throbbing nose despite the discomfort. It’s not bleeding anymore, but he’ll probably have a black eye that he’ll have to explain later--

 

“Stiles.” Stiles jumps a little bit, shoes sticking in the mud with a slap. Derek stalks closer, and the rain isn’t bothering him at all, or maybe there are more important things on his mind, because he looks strangely intent. “What are you doing?”

 

Stiles doesn’t know what he’s doing, really. So he shrugs. “Thinking,” he says eventually, because that’s the only way to explain the frantic buzzing going on in his head.

 

“You do that a lot.”

 

_A little too much, maybe._

 

“I just gave you those clean clothes you know,” he tells Derek as he looks over out of the corner of his eyes. Derek has his shoes back on, so that’s probably what took him so long to get out here, and his hair is back down in his eyes. He runs his fingers through it and pulls it back.

 

Derek looks down at his too-small jeans and then back up with a serious expression. “You did. Why?” There are water drops falling from his lashes in steady streams; Stiles shivers and wraps his arms around his waist in a futile attempt to keep warm, shrugs. Derek must know that there was something else besides ruining the upholstery, and that’s why he’s forcing this.

 

“You were soaking wet. And I felt bad that you had to stand in the rain for two days, all because I’m still stupidly single and still virgin-ized, I guess.” It’s embarrassing to say out loud, but Derek steps in front of him and forces Stiles to look him in the eyes.

 

“I didn’t have to, you know,” Derek tells him, sounding achingly sincere. And there’s rain all over the place, mud seeping into his shoes, so he can’t really tell if any of this is real.

 

Stiles looks down at the puddles forming in his footprints. “Yeah, I know, you could have just let them get me or something.” _Or could fix the root of the problem, but yeah right._

 

Derek growls, low in his throat, sounding similar to  the thunder. He turns a miniscule amount, turning towards the forest as well. “No.”

 

“It wasn’t just hospitality,” Stiles blurts, voice cracking.

 

“I wanted to protect you,” Derek says at the same time, and then they’re both facing each other again, expressions open and both bewildered. “I want you-- I want to stay by you,” Derek adds.

 

_I want you._

 

It could be a slip of the tongue, or a cut off phrase that sounded like more than it was, but Stiles was _all_ over Freud in Psych last semester, and Derek’s weirdly vulnerable expression makes him feel like he’s not reaching for something that’s not there.

 

Swallowing, Stiles blinks the rain out of his face and wipes it off with his palm. “Well that’s good. Because the real reason I invited you in is that I’d rather have you inside, with me, than out here.” It feels heavy, rolling off his tongue, and the thunder begins to fade as Derek’s expression softens. With a slow move, he lifts one hand to cup Stiles’s cheek, thumbing away raindrops and Stiles shivers at the change of temperature.

 

Then he steps forward and pauses just before touching their mouths together (asking _permission_ ) and Stiles’s head twitches up on its own volition, from how fully his body and mind are consenting, so he ends up closing the distance himself.

 

At first it’s just the press of Derek’s mouth, Stiles shivers and tries to press closer as the rain pounds against their backs. Everything is slick and cold and Stiles’s teeth ache for the warmth as Derek’s tongue traces patterns, along his lips and into his mouth. He still feels the vague ache in his nose when they press together, but it’s not any comparison to the tingling in his lower spine as Derek places a hand there, and the sensation of Derek’s clothes clenched in his hands. Stiles shivers again, so Derek begins talking against his mouth, but doesn’t quite pull away.

 

“Okay,” Stiles says, in agreement with whatever Derek is about to say.

 

“Should we?” Derek pants a little bit, and Stiles takes the opportunity to grab at his butt, because Derek seems on-board enough for butt touching.

 

“Absolutely,” Stiles answers, and they tug each other back into the house, stripping off wet clothes as they go.

 

They don’t really have to worry about the monster killing Stiles after that, so that’s cool.

 


End file.
